Initiative: Romance
by Pandiichan
Summary: "There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment." - Sarah Dessen. Avengers males x OCs. Reader-requested prompt booklet. 2: Loki, for Maymayliu. M for safety.
1. Clint: Chinese Silk

Initiative: Romance

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**AN: **Let's get this started! Okay, a bit of explaining: these stories will be written in first person and can (or will, rather) alternate between the requested Avenger male and love interest/character. While Fanfiction bans "you" and "second-person" based stories, it said nothing about first person in the guidelines. Those seem acceptable. As such, this will be a reader-requested booklet of oneshots about the _Avengers_.

These stories are reader requested, and will be told from first-person point of view, but will not be totally customized to suit the reader. That is impossible, and I don't know what all of you look like. I'm using this as creative writing practice and to further shape and get a feel for un-introduced _Avengers_ and _Thor_ OC's that I've yet to make a story for. This particular story, since it involves Hawkeye, involves an OC named Fai Mien – she is from China and details about her will be explained by Clint during the oneshot, so keep your eyes peeled!

This goes out to **Drachegirl14**, who posted the first request I saw on _We Need to Quit Meeting like This_. Now that _Initiative: Romance _is up, requests can be posted in reviews. Making up all teacher names. Also, I'm deliberately skipping or misspelling words to mimic Fai's speaking voice (as I hear it in my head – and no, I'm in no way trying to offend any Chinese people or seem racist so please don't take it as that).

Hope you like it, **Drachegirl14**!

May update either this or _The Pursuit of Liberty _tomorrow. Might not have time. Have to study for a double quiz I missed in my cooking class.

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In the Next Chapter

**Who:** Loki

**Prompt/Idea: **Negotiation

**Setting:** MARVEL U

**Suggested by: **Maymayliu

**Rating: **? (Maymayliu, send me a message so we can talk about this‼ :D)

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Hawkeye: Chinese Silk

(Hawkeye)

MARVEL U has a strict policy against co-ed dorms. However, because Natasha isn't the least bit attracted to me, and we've shown the best cooperation scores out of the entire student body, we're allowed to pair up. Fury actually said it could benefit us both by making us aware of our combat short-comings. Natasha is a close range fighter, whereas I prefer long-range. She's teaching me Russian in exchange for English lessons to smooth out her rough tone.

Equality isn't the focal point of this relationship, though. It's usually revenge. Fury is constantly breathing down our necks (mine, specifically. I think he's afraid of her. What man wouldn't be when she's a fortified KGB experiment that could probably turn testicles into dust?) and holding us to a slightly higher standard like he does Steve, Tony, Thor, and Bruce. Because of that, because of the way he hovers, I had to subtly reduce her vodka stash.

She noticed _immediately_. I took something away from her, so she stole something from me. My alarm clock, to be precise. Something in me realizes I've slept too long, and I stumble hastily, clumsily about my room. _Need clean shirt. Can't go to class in boxers. Only see one sock…need sandals…need flip-flops._

I chug a capful of Listerine since I don't have time to brush my teeth. Pulling the hem of my grey shirt from a pair of blue capris, I scoop up my _Survival in the Wilderness_ textbook and haul ass. Russle Faust, the instructor, was an ex-SHIELD agent who retired after an explosion took both of his legs. He operated on prosthetics, and didn't seem to recognize that he'd nearly lost everything below the waist. His dogged persistence was still alive, and without it he wouldn't have gone back to retrieve his comrade before they tortured him for weaponry information.

I'm almost to his class when I slam into someone. My momentum keeps me going for a few seconds before a tingle of pain wells up in my upper chest. _I hit something,_ I realize, and turn around. She's a small thing, slightly shorter than me by the looks of it. The girl's on her back, short hair tossed about her head by the impact.

I was already late; what harm was there in helping her up?

"Sorry about that." I extend my hand after coming to stand in front of her. She's wearing shoes that narrow into dangerous tips, I notice. The girl lets me pull her up, and I watch as her dark, silky hair falls back into place. It's not perfect, but the majority of her layered looks lays backs down. Like Natasha's hair, it's longer in the front and shorter in the back.

It barely creeps past her chin, that look. Her tanned forehead is partially hidden by triangles of wispy hair that fall into longer, jagged bangs framing the curve of her right cheek. Asian features – almond eyes, wide, smooth forehead, high cheekbones, and a slightly flat nose – relaxed once she stood. The pain had likely subsided to a dull throb now that she was on her feet. Black eyes squint at me, trying to discern why I would knock her over.

She mumbled something in her native tongue before rubbing her head. I had the sense to look sheepish. Times like these are reasons Fury should let me learn from a distance. I'm of better use in higher places where I can oversee and observe. Had I been in a high place, I would've seen her and would've avoided the possibility of knocking her down.

"Is alright." she assured at last. Her accent was thick, incredibly thick. I assumed she was new and struggling to learn English; she went out of her way to emphasize syllables to make her words more understandable. "Why you running? Morning classes taking their break now."

"I'm late. I was hoping to sneak in before break was over." I explain. MARVEL U bases their class times and teaching methods on research and experiences from other countries. It's been proven that starting classes later in the day can increase test scores and make students more willing to pay attention. Fury doesn't have the patience for that, though, and insists that learning can't wait because it needs to be constant. Instead, to help the ninety-eight percent who hate mornings, he allows a brief ten minute break in all morning lectures for us to adjust.

I was just another body in the crowd. She was, too. More students began to trickle out alongside us, some going for the annex while others sought the cafeteria. A small smile twisted her lips, displaying a dimple in her left cheek. "An' here I was ready to apologize." she laughed, "It is usually I that have to apologize to others. My eyes are not very good." her lips moved carefully, like she was hand-crafting every syllable pushed past them.

The accent snipped her words, or contorted them entirely until they resembled a different word, but it didn't faze me. Natasha wasn't a native English-speaker, after all. It was intriguing to hear someone that wasn't Russian or American for a change. "How bad is it? Your vision, I mean." Natasha's not really a conversation person. Neither am I, since I choose to spend most of my time in high places away from people.

That, and, well, I couldn't help but ask. I rely on my eyes for almost everything. Most of my training revolves around my vision. How else could I get the name _Hawkeye_? Her smile thinned, resembling one of dry humor. "Very bad. A mule kicked me in the head as a child. It did no' kill me, but did cause nerve damage. I'm barely above the 'legal blind' label."

"And you still attend school." I note with a small grin. The least I could do was pay her a compliment since I plowed over her. She grinned.

"I _teach_ school." she corrected. "I am student professor of Botany."

"You…" my brain stopped. "You teach here?"

"Dihrector Fury thought my knowledge of plants would be most heful to the students. I teach the Toxins and Tonics class."

"Natasha takes that class! The Russian redhead?"

Her black eyes crinkled slightly at the edges once she realized who I spoke of. She nodded. "Natasha is good student. Very smart. She show particular interest in diluted berry venoms!"

"Fantastic." I chuckle dryly. Now I'd have to watch her with berries, too. Great. Add that to the list of things I can't trust her with. She's already forbidden from having any type of writing equipment while in Tony's presence because of some threat to sever his urethra (if such a thing can happen. I'd rather not find out).

"I don't hear footsteps anymore. There are less people in the hall." she observed. We were the only two left in the hall. "I need to get water and measuring cup. It was nice to speak with you!"

"You too. And, again, sorry about running into you. I'm Clint, by the way…if you're curious."

"Oh? You mus' be Clinton. Natasha talk about a Clinton all the time." Natasha only uses 'Clinton' when she's agitated with me. Usually I hate the name. Turn away from it like it's nails on a chalkboard. With her, however, I can't hate it. She says "Cleen-ton" and I can't really hate "clean" when it makes me think of "clean, away, and uninvolved".

Clean and away is how I operate in the training area. Or try to. Sometimes it doesn't work. I clear my throat as her eyes flicker back and forth like a detector trying to deduce if I'm still here. "Yeah…uh, just call me Clint." I request.

"Fai." she held out her hand. I shook it. Just as quickly, though, she released it. "Goo' luck getting to your class, Clint!"

"Good luck with your…water." I replied somewhat lamely. I didn't know what the hell she needed water and a measuring cup for! Still, the rhythm of a conversation dictated that I should wish her good luck back. She disappeared, heels clicking quickly down the hall. It sounded like a beak rapidly tapping against the hard floor.

I was alone, as I preferred to be. And yet, I felt empty.

The emptiness didn't last long, though. I stared to see Fai in the oddest places. She was like an accidentally hilarious bright spot in my day. A mobile shiny thing coaxing me down from my nest, something that encouraged me to interact with people outside of my usual circle. Those interactions lasted a few sparse seconds – nothing more than a glance or a nod, maybe a wave – but they always got me her attention.

It was actually _nice_ to stand close to someone. Spending time alone, roosting in high spots to map the school on off days, made me forget how welcoming people could be. I thought they were interesting to observe, and I often forgot how interesting they could be to converse with. I couldn't forget her, though. She was always there.

If I didn't pass her going to English lessons on Thursdays, I caught her in Banner's company engaged in a discussion on what plants were edible and best for his alter ego. She interacted frequently with Steve's girlfriend, the student chef on staff. Fai collected herbs from the garden area for Liberty every day, and did so in bulk on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays were her off days, but Natasha told me she spent that time attending to students on her waiting list. Fury allowed Fai to perform legal stress relief services – spa-like stuff, I heard, things she'd brought over from China – for a small fee that was split evenly between herself and the school.

On Mondays she taught her Toxins and Tonics class, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Sundays were spent briefly with a private tutor and any remaining clients from her Tuesday list. Despite her crazy schedule, and my training room sessions on top of the espionage classes, I still ran into her. Not literally, as I was more careful about that due to her eyesight, but she still popped up. This girl had basically been _invisible _until that day, and now she was _everywhere_!

I honestly thought Fury or Coulson was pulling a prank on me. Or trying to teach me to be more aware. How could one person _suddenly _show up so much? Fai ate her lunch quietly three tables away from mine, nearly indistinguishable amongst all the normal-sized students. She practiced yoga and tai chi in the gymnastics area that doubled as the shooting range in the evening.

"Eye like a hawk" was a good descriptor of the situation. Now that I'd seen her and identified her, she didn't escape my sight. Part of me couldn't let her when she was still struggling with English and just so…_small_. She was petite like Steve's girlfriend, only a little taller. A prime target for anyone with an Asian fetish around here (every college campus has the crazy nerds; even secretive, super-powered ones like this).

I thought of her as a prime target, but I felt caught in her crosshairs. When I didn't see her, I thought about her. When she wasn't there, I noticed. Days without her thick accent seemed drab. Fai knocked me from my nest; I was a stranded bird waiting for flight assistance.

"Ow!" I hissed, looking down at my arm. Blood beaded and crawled from a thin, red line on my arm. One of Natasha's daggers buried itself in the padded wall behind me. We were supposed to be engaging in weapon-assisted close combat, but it wasn't working out very well. She didn't even bother to blink or murmur an apology.

"You weren't paying attention. _Again_." she observed with a hint of irritation and mild amusement.

"That doesn't mean you can strike without warning, Nat!"

"Our enemies will." Natasha pointed out. I rolled my eyes. The idea to fire a suction cup arrow at her mouth was tempting. She'd probably kill me in my sleep, though.

"Whatever." I grumbled, shooting the knife out of her hand with ease. Sure I was down to two arrows, but who cared?

"Maybe you can get Bruce to give you a referral for one of Fai's alternative medicines." she teased, pardoning me from the session. I gave a mock laugh as I returned the bow to its place in the school armory. Natasha said that because she knows I hate stitches. For someone like me who's constantly using his arms, who's constantly pulling back on extreme weight to propel an object hundreds of yards away, stitches are nothing but a nuisance. They just pop open, anyways.

It's Tuesday, but I know I'll find Fai in the reserved Stress Relief area. She used to make door-to-door visits with those who signed up, but quit doing that. No one would tell me what happened, exactly, but the guy's dorm buddies said she blew a powder into his eyes. Fai's got a wicked sharp tongue when someone's pissed her off, but she's hardly physical. I think there's a reason Fury and Coulson won't tell me why they gave her the space to make a stress relief area, and I think they did it for a good reason: to avoid student-on-student murder.

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(Fai)

My sight is poor and dim like a dying candle, but my ears are not. I'm basically blind, and my other senses are sharper because of that. I've grown especially used to the sound of Clint, even the sounds he _doesn't_ make. Half the time he never approaches me, but I know he's there. Everyone can tell when they're being watched, good vision or not.

He's gotten better about talking to me since I've called him out so much, but only recently. Clinton likes to wear loose clothes that flutter and flap about his slender form. His steps are firm but soft, like he wants to approach in utter secrecy. I tell him once that he is like a bird – he seldom steps with his full weight, and always creates movement to mask the sound of his feet. It is like how a bird hops on the ground in search of food, but can barely be heard because it flaps its wings while toiling about.

Familiar colors of eggshell-white, vanilla, caramel, and gray surround me. I know the relaxation space like the back of my hand. A massage table is snuggled beside a wooden counter carefully occupied with bags of tied herbs and scented candles. Suspended above it are chained-supported bundles of incense. Directly across from the door, at the back wall, is the L-shaped counter where I keep my oils.

The L-shaped counter has four small slats that act as cubbyholes. My Toxins and Tonics book, a scrapbook of herbs from my village, graded papers, and ungraded papers hold those spaces. One window allows light in from outside, and it wraps around the back left corner. On its windowsill sits a private collection of herbs and a jar of the newest silk worms my mother sent me. In the center of the room is a foam mat where clients can lay down to receive a Chinese foot massage.

To my far left, along the west wall, is a different table where acupuncture clients can lay. The smallest, cheapest spool and loom is nestled in the back right corner. Sometimes I get requests to spin ribbons for the girls. A coppery scent hits my nose, and I turn. His features are heavily smeared and distorted until he shuffles closer, but I'd know the short hair, prominent nose, and piercing blue eyes anywhere.

Clinton has come to see me. And he is bleeding; the crimson is a winding, thin, ugly line against the corded muscles of his arm. "Clinton, what happen to you?" I use 'Clinton' because too many people think I say "cleaned" when I use the short version of his name. My accent is thick, and it reminds me that I have not been out of Dacitan long. He knows all of this, though, and refuses to correct me or ask me to exercise my jaw any more than I have to for English lessons.

"It's nothing." he shrugs. His breath is warm, tickling my hair. Clinton is always modest and laid-back. If his arm were entirely severed, he would not panic. "Natasha just nicked me when I wasn't paying attention." Clinton adds at last.

"Maybe I give her extra-hard question on the upcoming quiz." I muse. Things like that make him laugh, and I like hearing him laugh. He isn't very vocal. Any sound at all is a soft, rare treasure for my ears. Clinton chuckled.

"Nat's just being Nat. Can you patch me up?"

"Does a dog lift its leg to pee?"

"Yes." he blinked, making a noise at the back of his throat. It was part-laugh and part _ah ha!_ My English isn't perfect, but I know what I want to say. Somehow, he always gets it. I have a small, general first aid kit, but I bypass it.

Clinton is my friend. He deserves something better than regular bandages. And some bandages can accidentally rub against the wound they mean to cover. A band-aid is likely all he needs, but a band-aid can be blasted off in combat. Or snatched off.

Rumor had it that a god from a different planet could make awful, weird things happen. He could probably make Clinton's bandage burrow under the skin, or even run away! It was all amusing and terrifying. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, I pull out a leftover scrap of silk too small to make into a ribbon. Silk was lightweight and accommodated various temperatures while being incredibly soft and cool.

It would be good for his arm, which was constantly in use. Silk could be tied off easier than other bandages, too. "Oh no, not that." Clinton shook his head quickly as I threaded the material calmly through my hands. "That's your good stuff, right?"

"What remains of it." I grinned. "People not want it because it small. Just because it isn't wanted, though, does not mean it not have use. Everything has purpose and place in life." I say wisely.

"It's silk, Fai. It's inanimate. It _has_ no purpose."

"Does too!" I counter. "It going to cover your arm! Now hold still!" he danced just out of reach. Clinton was a "no fuss" man. He not want finery; he just want something quick that work and will last long time. Sometimes, though, a little effort and finery is nice to have.

"I don't want to get it dirty." he objects. "You hand-make that stuff, right?"

"That not matter. More can be made. Now you hold still, or I bust out super-secret Chinese martial arts move!"

"You don't know any martial arts, and you told me you hate the assumption everyone makes about all Chinese people knowing self-defense." he reminds. His memory is scary accurate, like his eyes. It traps everything and never lets it go.

"Quiet, Clinton!" I chastise. That isn't the point!

"Come up here and say that." he teases, scooping me up effortlessly. My cheeks cramp with heat. His strong, lean form presses back against my splayed fingers that are fanned out across his chest. Clinton exudes heat; it's as if I can feel the inner fire always lighting the depths of his twinkling eyes. The scent of his deodorant, of him, invades my nose.

It's a nice smell.

He smirks, waiting for me to reply. We've established some odd relationship. I'm easy to scare, and he exploits that with delight since he likes to oversee people like a real hawk. I tease him about being short compared to his friends – like the big blonde one and Bruce's alter ego – and about his codename. And I tease him about what Natasha tell me, of course.

She say Clinton squawks like real bird when she throws the bathroom door open while he's in there. Natasha can't quite imitate him, but it still funny. We have playful banter (or that what Pepper say, anyways). "I wish this big enough to wrap around your throat." I sigh idly as I brush the small silk piece around the back of his neck and give it a light tug. He shivers slightly, probably because of the texture.

"That's not what you're supposed to say." he murmurs against my cheek. I shiver. Clinton knows I'm not used to intimate things. Dacitan is a village run almost entirely by women; girls are encouraged to go into larger cities and find husbands elsewhere. I was brought into the states by my uncle when nothing my mother tried restored my vision.

Nothing he tried worked, either. He was a man of business, not science. His connections were of little help, but I used a herbal remedy on one of his clients to cure bad airline meal. Next thing I know, he sending me to school for stress reduction techniques. It was a private school, with private teachers specially catered to my poor vision, and I was isolated once again.

Director Fury, the headmaster, noticed unusually high test scores. He say someone of my talents greatly needed at his school. Attending the secret school was my first real experience with many people, especially many males. I was excited to be around so many people, and sometimes misunderstood what men would say, but nothing truly terrible ever happened.

Clinton made sure of that. And I always carried a bag of crushed herbs on me. It burn like pepper spray, and I blew it into that man's eyes when he ask me for "happy ending" that day. Clinton still doesn't know people tease me about my accent and make lewd requests for "happy ending". I never knew of "happy endings" until I got here.

It was a vulgar and startling request. Make me feel uncomfortable. Make me realize how short I am compared to most people. It make me realize how I have no superpowers – make me realize how I just _normal_. "Are you going to say it, or are we going to have to negotiate?" he questioned.

Like a bird, Clinton take things and hold onto them. Usually they are not his things. Most of the time they're mine. Natasha say it a cry for attention, and it work. He always get my attention when he takes my paperclips, pens, shoes, and earrings.

One time I had _possible _date with young boy from herb specialty market, and dressed up nice. I couldn't find my other earring that day, or the change for the taxi. Natasha tell me Clinton took all of it, but he never say so himself. That date never happen. I think he want it that way – part of me hopes that, anyways.

He popped my dangling heels off. They clattered to the floor. Clinton smirked, half-expecting my world to come undone without the shoes. I just stared up at him, tracing his masculine, square jawline with my eyes. "I not worried about you, Clinton." I assure, "You have no powers."

"A man doesn't need powers." he replied. "We learn plenty of other methods to manipulate people in class."

"An' what you learn?"

"The sensual method is ninety percent effective in most cases. Ninety-five with alcohol consumption." he informed. Clinton brushed slightly chapped lips against mine, and I froze. I felt electrified and on fire at the same time. His face was turned towards the right, as if he was withholding his mouth from me.

He returned wordlessly, gliding across my mouth. A hint of pressure hid behind his lips, but it was fleeting. Clinton like a bird of prey, attacking for a second and escaping the next. Our mouths collided a third time, one of us opening up to accept the other's curious tongue (who it was, I do not remember). A light groan, a begging suckle, was interrupted by whooping.

"Is Clint getting a happy ending? No fair! What about me?"

I hate nosy American boys like them. They all the same. I shout at him in my native tongue, trying to launch out Clint's embrace while threatening to create something potent enough to cleave his testicles from his body. Clint walks over to kick the door shut in their faces, unable to do anything with me writhing and twisting in his arms. Trying to speak over me when I'm angry is near impossible.

When they say that I get embarrassed. I feel much shame. They mock my people, and think I only here to make them feel better. That not me, and that not what I do! I'm much smarter and more useful than that!

"I need patch you up. Don' go anywhere." Clinton starts to walk away, and I stop him. My nails prick angrily against his skin – anger I wish to show those other boys – but he says nothing. He lets me wrap the silk against the bleeding wound; I barely get a chance to knot it before he stalks off.

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(Clint)

It'd been almost two weeks.

I'd finally kissed her, and now I couldn't get her out of my head. She was like silk. Her hands were slightly toughened by years of doing manual labor in her Dacitan village, but Fai was still much softer than I'll ever be. Everything she did was full of purpose, caution, and meticulousness. Her poor vision caused her to be more careful with almost everything.

She treated everything like porcelain, even an up-and-coming assassin like me. Fai was businesslike and polite. Most of her ideas on how to interact with people came from Dacitan…from a whole different world, basically. Expecting her to fight her own battles here, in America, where the rules were different and speech could be free and senseless, was wrong. Heartless dicks I called classmates were poking fun at her Asian features, or trying to drag her into sordid ideas of what Asian women represented in America.

I'd have none of that. It wasn't right. They didn't know her like I did.

What the hell did I care? I needed the hand-to-hand combat practice, anyways. Those men quickly learned that I was something to fear. Most of my talking was done with the bow, but I didn't hesitate to get up close and personal.

Was I sloppy up close? Yeah, but it was a work in progress. This time I only walked away with a nosebleed and one shiner. I got off _way _better than the other guy. Hill and Coulson were on my case, but Fury seemed to understand. He lectured me like the rest of them for the sake of appearance, though.

I was, once again, standing outside the relaxation area. Fai seemed none too impressed, pouting sassily as I gazed at her through one swollen eye. "Clinton Barton, what will I do wi' you? You always make trouble!" she shook her head at me.

"You can give me some more silk." I smirked. That was our code. Those ribbons were nothing compared to real silk. After that kiss, it was unspoken but confirmed that "silk" would stand for 'closed door' encounters. Everyone else in the school could have those fat little worms in the jar; I wanted the woman who was nothing _but _silk.

"I think I have some." she whispered enticingly. Fai was being trained in matters of seduction, just like Natasha. She was beginning to understand how male minds worked, and was beginning to realize how damn _adorable _her short hair and dark eyes were. The door shut with a soft _click_! and I couldn't resist the slightly emphasized pendulum swing of her hips anymore. She stifled a yelp-like giggle as I flew to the L-shaped counter and began to ravish her.

Her little arms wrapped around me as she snuggled close. A quick tumble in the relaxation room was always good cardio. Nothing really compares to the feeling of being swathed in silk. It's the best way to heal.


	2. Loki: Negotiations

Initiative: Romance

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**AN:** HinataElyonToph was the only review to the last chapter (who requested anything). Thanks‼ Your idea has been logged, and I will contact you for further details later.

I see this got some favorites. I guess the idea is appealing then, no? Let me know what you think!

To Drachegirl14: I'm glad you liked it :).

WARNING: This might seem dark (or not). I intend to write my Loki dark, to capture his spurned element, but will make it tolerable.

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In the Next Chapter:

**Who:** Bruce Banner

**Prompt/Idea:** A Guide to Student-Based Power

**Setting:** MARVEL U

**Suggested by:** HinataElyonToph

**Rating:** T

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Loki: Negotiation

(Loki)

If she'd told me, it wouldn't have to be this way. I feel that I have been betrayed. Again. She also obeys this unspoken pattern of torment; she has left me. She has betrayed me.

"You've overstepped your bounds, Mr. Odinson! Cease and desist!" growls Hill as she fires one of those puny human devices at me. The humans think us immortal, but that is not so. In my armor, however, I'm nearly unstoppable. When in both my Jötun _and_ my armor, I am worthy of kingship and worship. The bullet bounces off my golden armor and I flick red eyes to her, daring another bullet to find me.

I hope one does. Then I'll have truly no problem coating another hallway in ice. Fury demanded I not go into the hall, that I defrost the training room so it can be used, but I did no such thing. They are all to be punished for not telling me of her departure. Our beloved headmaster can only communicate through the device I know as a "walkie-talkie"; I have locked him in the training room's control area.

He beats fruitlessly on a metal door encased in ice. The overlooking windows are also clouded with the glassy chill, but it pales in comparison to the frozen masterpiece I've turned the training room into. Either side of the room is occupied by a fractured valley of jagged ice boasting long spines of solid chilliness. Sparse, semi-solid slopes of ice are hidden among them, and the only way out of the training room is to find said slopes, climb them, and lose fingers scaling the piercing wall. At the heart of the room is a small structure supported by columns. Within that building are the people I was supposed to call 'teammates' today.

I have no need for 'teammates' when I'm surrounded by those who are inferior. These students may have powers, but they cannot challenge a _god_. No one can challenge me, save for her. Lyra is humble and gullible, but refuses to let someone speak ill of her or think her dumb. She has a most amusing – dare I say intriguing? – pointed tongue to stab at those who tease her.

She was my English tutor. Though I objected and thought Thor could benefit from her tutelage, Fury placed me in her care. His excuse was lame; something about creating a reviewable curriculum lest anyone snoop and discover what the school is truly for. Lyra is calm and quiet, traits I resemble and admire. In the beginning I was cruel to her, touting my Asgardian status and princely origins, but she did not waver from her instruction.

That diligence is also admirable. She handled teaching and interacting with me as I would studying sorcery. Lyra took offense to my purposeful insults, I could tell, but wouldn't leave. Instead, the clever minx voiced that I didn't require English lessons. "You're refined for someone from another planet, believe it or not. You could pass for a gentleman here if you actually used that beating _thing_ in your chest." said Lyra with light sarcasm and a shameless, crooked smirk.

From that moment on I was conflicted and delighted. My teacher had spine. She had both insulted me and praised me. There was a different woman beneath that exterior, I realized. This usually silent woman could actually be quite vicious with passion and wit if necessary.

Few realized this, though, because she was constantly – and happily, maybe. I could never discern – ignored in favor of her curvaceous, blonde-haired, violet-eyed friend.

We both stood in the shadow of an Asgardian (Gersemi barely qualifies, in my opinion). It was something that bonded us. I learned more about her than I did the language of the Midgardians. And she, me, I think. For all the things I knew – she scares easily (this was a factor that worked well in her favor where I was concerned), her eyes change various shades of blue and green depending on her mood – I did not know her mother was gravely ill.

Lyra was using the only valued skill she had, music, to make money. To a god that was given anything he wanted coated in gold if asked, her struggle for money didn't make sense. The halls of Asgard are swathed in gold. Gold is plentiful for us. Not for the mortals, apparently, and to have just a piece could change their lives.

She did not have gold, so making large amounts of the "bills" had to suffice. Lyra was one of the few students who had a pass to come and go as she pleased. Hill and Coulson would not grant me the same pleasure. They say I might endanger other humans beyond the university to suit my whims; they call me mischievous. Do they not realize that my mischief keeps my magic sharp?

No one has ever denied the Trickster. With the aid of magic, I snuck out and followed her. I was intrigued. Lyra never spoke of her nightly ventures. There were speculations – she was a concubine, she had an older suitor trying to court her – when she rushed into English sapped of energy and in a clinging, sparkling gold dress, but no answers.

Her short hair, a mix of sandy brown and coppery gold, was done up in an elegant twist. A band of fake diamonds pulled the strands from her face, and matched the tiny earrings in her ears. Liner and mascara from the night before framed her eyes. That day was the first my heart had truly stopped because of her. She resembled the person I'd seen at the "orchestra" plucking a harp in a flowing blue dress that pooled against the floor; Stark and the Soldier took my brother and I there in effort to teach us their planet.

That kind of attire was reserved only for special occasions. She barely bothered with things like that. Her dislike for overindulgence, and preference for spending time reading or attending to her on whims, caused us to have a kinship of sorts. I did not like Asgard and all its showiness, nor did I like its penchant for holding a certain golden son in favor when I was nothing but dark-haired and reserved. Despite the annoying people I share the halls with, and my oafish brother clogging my quarters, Midgard is becoming home.

Or it was, rather.

It is nothing now.

She is gone.

Coulson was quick to arrive. He and I don't get along, but while I was lost in my thoughts Hill surely sent for him. He would not be here otherwise. "What's the matter here?" he asked.

"Mr. Odinson is in violation of training room rules. He's expanded the battlefield and is at risk of endangering the students." informed Maria.

"I AM NOT ODINSON!" I shout. "I AM LOKI LAUFEYSON!" clenching the scepter in my hand, I slam it into the ground. My Jötun talent quickly slithers down the surface and reaches for them.

"Mr. _Laufeyson_ was scheduled to play the villain. He's taking it too far." Maria pinned me with a glare that would melt any other man's soul.

I grinned. "There is never a point of 'too far' for a villain." I assure. Hill shoots at her feet in effort to break the creeping ice, but it does nothing. She eyes me with sheer hatred, but I hardly care. I'd given her that same look mere days before Lyra left. At the time I had not known the depth of her burden, but she disclosed as neutrally as she could that Hill reprimanded her for the long hours off campus.

Hill said it was an abuse of her power. Lyra's grades were slipping; she was falling asleep in odd places and becoming hollow-cheeked and absentminded, and Hill knew this. I believe that was the true cause for the conversation, Lyra's slipping grip on the delicate balance between learning, taking care of herself, and work. The English session – which was more talking than teaching – was cut short that day. Lyra's blue eyes were cloudy with exhaustion, and I left to give her peace.

That was a mistake.

She then left me. Gersemi hand-delivered the note, much to Thor's delight, but there was no joy to be had. Gersemi explained what "terminal cancer" meant, but it did not ease the ache of her absence. Part of me couldn't believe she'd given up, that she left because Hill refused to let her make money. Part of me didn't know why she was trying so hard to save her mother.

My opinions on family are biased, of course.

She'd apologized in her note and explained her choice, but I would have none of it. I would have nothing but what I wanted. I wanted Lyra to come back. She was genuine company to me, and the only one who would smile or laugh _with_ me when I played a prank on her. I'd been distraught for days, and had even briefly returned to Asgard to consult Heimdall and my mother.

If the all-seeing, all-knowing couldn't help me, a woman could. Heimdall was of some use; he'd known that I'd come to Asgard in search of something – anything – to attract the mortal who had become a friend and target, and alerted my mother. She never saw things the way my father had, and still considered me to be more her son than a hopeful pact between two realms. A golden apple waited invitingly in her palms, and I took it.

Frigga let me take it without incident, but noticed I was doing quite a lot for a mere mortal. Golden apples were not given carelessly to mortals. That would be ridiculous, and Frigga asked if I had anything planned to trade it for. Dare I bargain with her mother's health? To a woman who valued her mother more than there were stars in the sky, what could compare?

What could I trade it for? I didn't have an answer at the time. I merely requested that she watch over Thor and I, to see how it all conspired. She was surely watching me go mad, but I didn't care. Nothing would stop me, not if I didn't want it to.

A thunderous crack echoed faintly.

My dear brother and the Soldier must've escaped the training room. Coulson and Hill were thoroughly frozen; only their heads remained. The ground shook beneath my feet. Running cracks in the iced hall announced my brother, but I needed no warning. Thor was very hard to miss.

"Loki you will cease this reckless madness at once!" he demanded. I laughed. Thor had truly come to see himself as the just fist of Midgard.

"It is not reckless madness, dear brother. I know exactly what fuels my madness. This madness is deliberate."

"Okay." the Soldier dons his costume with seriousness, and hold his shield to his chest calmly. "You're doing this for a reason. So, what's the reason?"

"I'm a bit lonely, so I thought statues would be a nice salve." I tease. Steve squints.

"You miss Lyra." he murmurs. I involuntarily clench. It is a weakness I've known about for quite some time, but I will not have others exposing me. It is unsettling. To save face, I scoff.

Thor raises his massive, empty head. His brows furrow. Slowly, he smiles. "I knew something was amiss! Your tantrums have merely gotten frostier now." he muses.

"Do not mock me!" I spit, calling a large, thick spike of ice to my fingers. I break it off with ease and hurl it at my brother. Thor replies by smacking the piece like he's reenacting the "baseball" sport Steve showed him.

"I do not seek to mock you, brother!" insists Thor, "Only to understand."

"What if we can get Lyra to visit? Or call? Will that make you stop?" Steve questions. I sniff. Meager offerings. But, I am amused that he makes the effort to pacify me. Not entirely so, though; he is the one student I expect to bargain for the sake of the school.

"It will make me consider it." I say carefully. "But it may not convince me." the end of my lips twist up in a playful smirk.

"I will bring her to you, then." decided Thor.

"You can't!" objected Steve. "The object of negotiating is to keep any uninvolved civilians _out _of the warzone!"

"If I do not get what I want, I will expand this 'warzone', as you call it. There will be no one uninvolved until my demands are met!" I threatened. Steve pursed his lips in unvoiced disdain. As the God of Mischief, I feed on the darkest parts of humanity. They thrill me and amuse me; Steve's displeasure is no different.

"I will bring her to you." Thor repeated. "Do nothing until I return, understand?"

"Yes." I hissed.

* * *

(Lyra)

I carefully shifted the harp into place, mindful of the violinists tuning and spacing their seats. There were four violinists and one cellist. The owner thought a harp would make an interesting addition, so here I was. Shortly after leaving MARVEL U, I visited the nearby bar. My skills spread by word of mouth, and I found myself booked by higher-end places or areas with lots of elderly folks.

There wasn't really a market for a harpist and violinist who preferred classics and ballads. Hard, high-pitched sawing gave me a headache. I was more for the gentle humming and lilting the instrument could do. It fit my personality, I thought. Long hours and making little time for myself is also a habit of mine.

It's what has to be done. My mother always told me I was wise beyond my years. More mature than I should be. That served me well now. A wise person realizes the necessity of sacrifice; a wise person has the maturity and focus needed to doggedly pursue a goal.

My goal was to keep her alive. It's childish, and maybe a bit much for a college kid to handle, but I was trying. No kid wants to lose their parent, you know? Every time I think about it, it makes my stomach sick. MARVEL U wasn't right for me, anyways.

These hands aren't meant to kill. All the really know is the violin and harp. And, occasionally, a pen. Most of my original works are unfinished though. I can make time for hobbies when I know my mother's condition will improve.

Right now I have one goal: help pay for her hospital bills.

It's hard to do since my father is the only other contributor; his disability checks are only so much. He hasn't been the same since that thoroughbred rolled on him. Alton, my father, was too big to be a jocky, but would "de-spook" and break in the stubborn newcomers not quite ready to accept a rider. One day a young stallion got the best of him.

He survived, but with numerous fractures to the leg, a punctured lung, and three broken ribs. The hospital bills were challenging then. Maintaining a steady, survive-able income was tougher after that. My mother, Angeline, was able to support us by keeping her job as a reporter.

I spent many nights in the company of my father. It was lonely, but I was never truly alone. Nana Ross, my maternal grandmother, often helped out. She's how I learned to play the harp and violin. I think she would help us with the bills, too, if she could.

She doesn't really remember who we are.

Like Nana, mom had a penchant for smoking. It was no surprise to find that she'd contracted lung cancer. Was it scary? Absolutely. But it was no _logical _surprise.

Her long, wavy hair is nearly all gone. It's short, and survives in feathery patches. She says she'll only get a wig when it all falls out. She's stubborn like that, and so am I. Somehow, I'm always able to convince myself to book one more session. To pick up one more piece of music and practice until it's acceptable for the booker.

It's far from healthy, but I've gained this ability to focus for hours on end. I can play, numb to hunger and the lack of sleep. In my head is nothing but music. My half of the dorm room used to be decorated with promises of payment and set lists for the places I'd play in.

Gersemi never really asked about it. I guess she thought I was saving up for something expensive. I didn't have the heart to tell anyone what I was really working towards. Part of me didn't think it was right to bum anyone out with the truth; the other part of me thought things would go smoother if less people were involved. "You have five minutes!" warned the organizer, prompting a great shuffle of papers and the perfection of stand angles.

Had Loki been from Earth, I think he would've caught on. He always eyed the scraps of paper with particular interest. Most of our conversations about Earth currency versus Asgardian currency started because of those papers. Those papers and my desire to just _work_ intrigued him.

It opened him up to a different side of life. Loki, as I came to understand, didn't really have to work for anything. He chose to work with magic – which I had a hard time believing in the existence of, but, yes, it does exist – but that was about it. While humans could never match the strength of an Asgardian, he remarked with amusement that we were industrious and energetic like his people. At this point, I was feeling far from energetic.

My cheeks were slightly hollowed from the hours I pulled. I didn't like spending a lot of money on food because I wanted it to go to my mother. As of late, I hadn't really had an appetite, anyways. Worrying, wondering if tomorrow will be the day she quietly gives up, has a way of muting my appetite. Most of the time the clubs and hole-in-the-wall spots I play at will give me a free meal.

It was appreciated. Those freebies fueled my endless cycles of practice, review, practice, memorize. Half the time it was hard to focus. My eyes often burned from exhaustion or tears of frustration. I was an only child, the _only_ child, and I was trapped in a position that demanded and broke even the oldest and wisest adults.

I felt trapped and fatigued. But…what could I do? I didn't want to do _nothing_! I couldn't just sit around knowing my mother was dying. I think that's why I work as much as I do, though. If I work, I won't have to face reality.

If I work, I won't have _as many_ bittersweet memories of her passing away. Wasting away.

The building structure could hardly muffle the sound of thunder. I couldn't see the tell-tale bolt of lightning, not from the stage, but my harp hummed with the fading vibrations. Thor was the last person I expected to see here. He and I talked, but I preferred Loki's company more than his.

And yet, here he was, storming through the double doors. He looked like the clouds that preceded him – stern and dark-faced. Focused. His eyes glimmered, lightning trapped in the depths of those electrified blue eyes.

Had someone thought twice about releasing me from MARVEL U? Was he here to collect me?

"Sir, you can't—"

"The reason of my arrival does not concern you." he pointed the massive hammer to the organizer. "I request your presence, Lyra. It is urgent." Thor locked his blue eyes with mine. My fingers slowly released their light grip on the harp strings.

What could he possibly need me for? I don't _have_ any superpowers! _But you know why_, my mind whispered, _it's about Loki_.

And it was, my gut confirmed. It wouldn't be so tightly wound if it wasn't. Wordlessly, I abandoned the harp. Loki was more important than a few bucks. "What happened?" I dared to ask.

What type of harm could befall an Asgardian and matter? _Something _had to have happened in order for Thor to get me.

"It will be quite obvious when we arrive." he assured me. "Hold tight." I'd seen this happen once or twice with Gersemi. And in the training room when he knocks everyone down like they're bowling pins. Clutching his armor, I held on as we shot into the air. We landed just outside the front doors to MARVEL U.

Or what had once been the front doors to MARVEL U. They were open, but not welcoming. Inside, the warm school lights glowed dimly from within a coat of ice. The chill licked my skin long before I stepped inside. My breath escaped in a thin, transparent fog as I stepped lightly and carefully across a slippery floor.

Two Lokis readily guarded the entrance, scepters pointed in an _x _fashion. There was no real way to tell them apart, not unless you touched them. I'd learned that his duplicates could express emotions just like the original. The real Loki could pick their minds, or use them to see in areas he wasn't present in. Green eyes widened slightly.

"I've kept my word." Thor said to Loki, "Now you keep yours. Reverse the damage you have done!"

"Bring her to the training room and it shall be done." promised the Loki copy. The two disappeared in a soft _fwoosh!_ of smoke. Waiting at the training room on a throne of ice in all his helmed, armored glory was Loki. His skin was still transitioning from detailed, rough blue to smooth, dewy peach. Red eyes gave way to green; they looked at me with hurt and slight delight.

What…had he missed his favorite victim? Loki seemed to wilt when he couldn't make mischief. Few accepted his…_talents_ as well as I did. Most of the students fought back, but that was to be expected when the student body was super-powered. He rose, eyes never leaving mine as he demolished the chair with one well-placed stab of the scepter.

His hands glowed, imbuing the scepter with light. The icy hallway coating thawed like true ice in the springtime. Loki wiped his hand across the partially frozen bodies of Steve, Hill, and Coulson. They collapsed in shivering heaps. Duplicates appeared, at the ready for his instruction.

"Thaw the rest for my _dear_ brother. I will handle the training room." he grabbed my elbow, directing me inside. A large column of ice blocked the entryway. It was mildly startling, but not surprising. Loki was a man of solitude.

"So what's this about?" I asked, pursing my lips to keep my teeth from chattering. A black dress didn't really fend off the chill, not when it seemed to soak into the material itself. He removed the cape-like piece, draping it around my shoulders. The inside was warmer than the outside, and for that I was grateful.

"He's been stricken with an ill tempter since your leave!" informed Thor. Sometimes I forgot Asgardians could hear _very_ well. It was surprising since they were raised in an atmosphere where every emotion – happiness, rage, sorrow – manifested as shouting. I guess his constant exposure to loud voices made quiet ones especially easy to hear. Loki bit back a hiss, his lips thinning.

My heart fluttered a little. Was it true? When we first met he didn't _like_ mortals. It almost seemed too cheesy or clichéd to be true. I, a mortal, had changed his mind?

"Are you having a tantrum?" I couldn't help but tease. His nostrils flared.

"It is _not _a tantrum!" he insisted.

"Then what is it?"

He paused, scepter tapping and breaking up the ice in the room. Every quiet tap echoed, causing a crack in the larger structures. "A negotiation." Loki replied at last, casually strolling through a thin layer of water.

"You can't make me choose." I shook my head. I know I should've heard him out, but my mind jumped to my mother. Loki wouldn't get an answer out of me if that's what this was all about. It just wasn't _right _to make me choose between the woman who raised me and the guy I'd come to like. I loved them equally.

"This isn't _about_ choosing. Negotiations mean an agreement to terms. It is an exercise in bargaining. I'm offering you a trade." explained the God of Lies.

"A trade of what?"

He pulled a loosely tied velvet pouch from his waist. The bag hung limply, emptily, after he pulled out a golden apple. "You for your mother's health." he rotated the apple a fraction, showcasing its flawless, shiny skin and full shape.

"What?" I blinked dumbly. Tony and Bruce often joked that Loki displayed the key signs of a dominating psychopath. If not a psychopath, Tony predicted, Loki would be one of those "kinky freak" fellas. This was incredibly awkward to think about when I'm standing right across from him, when I know he can poke around in my head.

"I will give you this, an Apple of Idun, in exchange for yourself." he clarified. "All I ask is that you slice it, leave the skin, and take some for yourself."

I'd be repaying him until my last breath if this was a _real_ Apple of Idun. I'd only ever heard about it in books. But, then again, he was real. A gnawing sensation ate at the back of my mind, biting into my common sense until it froze me with a deafening warning cry. _It can't be _THAT _simple_, the voice whispered.

And in any other case, the voice would be right. But, I trusted Loki. He may be the Trickster, he may have a tongue of silver, but I'd earned his honesty. That week I ignored him for excessive pranking taught him well. Loki's darkest secret – aside from this whole "Jötun" thing I was just beginning to understand as _not _the ancestors of yeti – was, perhaps, his desire to be acknowledged.

I knew that, and I'd be a liar if I said I didn't manipulate it. His reputation preceded him in most cases, and few wanted to mess with him. Others didn't find him as engaging as Thor and overlooked him. I indulged in his desire for conversation and acknowledgement. That gave us a level playing field where trust was concerned.

"Anything else?"

"Take me with you when you bestow the gift upon your mother."

I knew there was more to it than what he mentioned. It was doable on my end. Fury might take some convincing, though, considering the state I'd found the university in. Loki didn't seem very concerned. "So that's it, hm?"

"Were you expecting more?" Loki inquired, chuckling lightly.

"Maybe." I admitted vaguely. "I mean, it is _you_, Loki of Asgard, I'm dealing with."

He seemed amused. Maybe pleased with the way I addressed him. "If you expected more, I shall not disappoint. I'm always in the mood for taking." Loki whispered, seizing my chin in his long fingers. My brain stopped. It was a good thing I wasn't holding the apple. If I was, it'd be dropped and bruised.

Bruce and Tony might have a point to that whole "dominating" thing. Being stupefied and slightly excited left Loki plenty of time to explore my mouth. At first he was quick and hurried, brushing over every inch of space he could reach. Then, once he was satisfied that his silver tongue had marked everything, he slowed down to indulge. He let me break for air, knuckles brushing over the skin of my cheek.

"I did not like it when you left. That note was highly impersonal. I hope I've convinced you to stay, yes?" he smirked down at me as if he knew the own potency of his beauty.

"If this apple really works, if it cures my mom, I'll stay." I nodded. "Or be forever indebted, whatever phrase seems eloquent and appropriate." I waved my hand dismissively.

"Ah, the word 'forever' brings to mind another matter, but it can wait. I wish to watch your mother's health return. Once it does, I'll know you're on the path to recovery, yourself."

"You're strangely altruistic." I joked. Translated stories didn't always paint Loki to be so selfless, after all. And neither did some of the stories Thor told. Like the snakes in the goblet.

His helmet and armor dissolved. "I'm ready for you to spend time with me, actually. You were far too busy bearing the silent burden of your mother's struggle to do so before."

At least he was honest. I pinched his arm.

"Honey, I'll spend all the time with you that you want if this works."

"It will. I look forward to your company."

* * *

(Loki)

As expected, the apple cured her mother. She'd sliced it thinly enough to make it plentiful. Lyra shared it with her mother and father. She offered some to Gersemi, but she was of half-Asgardian origin already. It had no real effect.

Her mother, as I understand it, took to writing columns and stories from home. It made paying back the hospital bills a bit more bearable. I was tempted to bring them treasure from Asgard as her dowry, but that would be 'awkward'. The subject was still hard to bring up. We were nearly inseparable now that she'd returned to the school.

She lavished me with attention not just out of gratitude, but out of general fondness. Her brief time away from school was enough to start an itch for me. Lyra missed me almost as much as I had her. That type of intensity was not uncommon for a man like me, a man who had few friends and fewer female friends. We were not permitted to spend a night in the same dorm room, though, and for that we parted. It was insufferable.

Every night I went to sleep wondering how to approach the subject. Saving a life, granting someone immortality, was no small occurrence. Immortality and the golden apples of Idun were held in high regard on Asgard. As such, they were to come at a price. The golden apples of Idun were revered, and for taking one I needed to present something equally revered and amazing.

Mother would accept nothing less than a marriage. I believe it was because they'd worried about me in my youth. While I had not gone without the touch of a woman, I didn't pursue them. There was no reason to, not when I could tell they sought me only as a means to get closer to Thor. Lyra qualified as someone to wed now that she'd eaten part of an apple.

Marrying her would also be fortuitous to the Allfather. We would have a connection to Earth that went beyond Thor and his foolish desire to protect it. I was highly enticed by the idea of marrying her. It meant I would have an eternity with a woman I could scare, a woman I could teach and learn from, and a woman who would bless no other with affection. Her head did not turn to Thor the way other Asgardians' did.

She was just for me.

With no clever way to explain the consequences of gifting a mortal with an apple, I settled for blatancy. She was reading in the library when I found her. Lyra looked up. I sat quietly, carefully beside her. "Remember the day I told you 'forever' brought another matter to mind, but we never discussed it?"

"Yeah. That's when you defrosted everything and Fury was pissed because Coulson and Hill had to take sick leave for a week." she grinned.

"I'd like to talk about that subject now." I gently took the book from her, shutting it and laying it down.

"Alright. Talk." Lyra offered, blinking blue-green eyes at me.

"The Apple of Idun does not come without beneficial consequences. I've yet to complete the trade, and I need you to do so."

"I…I don't understand."

"The apples cannot simply be taken and given to anyone. They are important to Asgard. One must promise something equally important in return for receiving such a gift."

"What did you promise?"

"…a wedding ceremony."

"WHAT?"

"I promised Asgard a wedding. Few things are more important than the marriage of a prince. It symbolizes the continuation of the royal blood, and assures Asgard they will one day have another leader." her pale face gradually reddened.

"So…we have to get married because you helped my mom?"

"Yes." I nodded. Her cheeks burned a deeper red.

"Are they, uh, expecting children?"

"From us? Perhaps not. Thor is first-born, but he is not married. If we were to have children first, though, that would be marvelous. Our child would then succeed Thor by the laws of Asgard."

"Is that the only reason you want kids?" she asked rather flatly.

"No." I smirked against her ear, drawing her into my lap. The librarian would likely realize with unnatural swiftness that people were misbehaving and come to investigate. I had little time to lavish her as I wanted. Lyra uttered these delicious, dark noises that tickled both the Trickster and the dark Jötun animal in me. "I merely want to see you swollen with child." I began to kiss her neck.

She shuddered beneath me, biting back the softest of inhales. Obeying propriety, I could not bed her until we were married by the laws of Asgard. It was painful to wait, as I'd wanted to bed her for quite some time. "Being ripe with a young babe will have you truly rooted in every aspect of my life. You will be my lover, my wife, and the mother of my child."

A life for a life. It was only fair.

"You're a tough negotiator." she sighed. I nipped at the column of her throat, allowing her to take my chin in her hands. "But it's worth it." Lyra kissed me on the lips. It didn't surprise me that she'd agreed. There was little one can back out of after their parent has been saved from the clutches of slow, painful death.

I wasn't truly worried. Negotiations and dealings are a Trickster's specialty, after all.


End file.
